Posted on 04/09/25
Baltimore, MD - April 9, 2025 - For much of my youth, my parents, siblings, and I had the distinct privilege of spending Pesach with my grandparents, Yehuda & Chana Friedman, Z”L. It was easily the highlight of our year. We’d pack up the station wagon and head to their home in Washington, D.C., where the rolling hills of Shepherd Park were painted with blooming tulips and the soft pink hues of cherry blossoms. It was a break from school, a chance to unwind – but more than anything, it was a time to be together as a family.
Walking into their home on Erev Pesach, you were immediately embraced by the aroma of Yom Tov – the kitchen buzzing with activity, the warmth of tradition filling every corner. My grandparents were always a team, especially in the kitchen. They prepared the charoses and other Seder staples with quiet coordination and a sense of calm. There was no frenzy, just a steady, loving rhythm as they set the stage for the Seder.
And the Seder – that was the moment we all waited for.
Both of my grandparents were Holocaust survivors. You might have expected them to lead the Seder with personal stories of escape and survival, to draw parallels between their own Exodus from captivity and the one we read about in the Haggadah. But they rarely went there. Instead, they sat at the head of the table, content and radiant, simply basking in the nachas of their children and grandchildren. That was their Geulah.
They listened as we shared divrei Torah, chuckled along when the inevitable Seder giggles erupted, and played along with the kids as they hid the Afikoman. The Seder wasn’t heavy or intense, it was warm and joyful. Long divrei Torah were replaced by short, creative insights. There was room for everyone, especially the youngest voices. My grandmother would serve each dish with care, her eyes lighting up at every compliment. The joy on our faces as we ate was her way of remembering, reaching back to her childhood in Mád, Hungary, while gently drawing her children and grandchildren into that world through the love she poured into every dish. They didn’t dwell on the past. They didn’t ignore it either, but they refused to be weighed down by it. When they did speak of their journey, it was always with an unmistakable tone of gratitude to Hashem. I must have heard it a hundred times: “Who would have believed I’d still be here, surrounded by this family?” The one moment my grandfather’s voice would tremble was during Hallel, as he reached the words: "אין אנחנו מספיקין להודות לך”—“We are not capable of thanking You enough.” It was more than just words; it was the heartbeat of his story. They taught me that the Seder isn’t about intense Divrei Torah or heavy-handed lessons. It’s about presence. About appreciating your family and cherishing your heritage. It’s about sitting around a table – alive, connected, celebrating the simple, profound miracle of still being here. Because והיא שעמדה – through every generation, Hashem stands by us. We are not defined by victimhood. We are defined by resilience. And every year, at every Seder, we pass that resilience on. Wishing everyone a peaceful Shabbos and beautiful Yom Tov!